The weathered boards of barns
   that have withstood the wind,
      …waiting for another harvest,
         … another planting.

But tilted now, shifted,
   having been pushed for so long,
      …the roofs settling,
         …into their feet.

Their story told,
   and work long finished,
      …they become the seed,
         …to imagine what has been.

quiet bird bright morn

dark before dawn, new day here

no surprise, it’s time

March is so fickle and uncommitted.  I wrote this a couple of years ago and it most certainly applies to our midwestern week.

Twilight cold
Sifting snow
Sifting
Sifting
Sifting snow.

Blizzard wind
Singing pines
Sifting snow in the
Twilight cold

Crested drifts
Shifting snow
Blizzard wind in the
Twilight cold

Quiet twilight
Cold wind blowing
Blizzard singing in the
Sifting cold

We shoveled snow all day and I wondered how we will do it when we’re eighty.
Eighty is not old unless you’re shoveling snow.  Last night I went for a walk in the
blizzard over to the river.  All I could hear was the wind until I came to the pine trees.
They made a beautiful musical tone.  I’d never heard it before.  The snow was “sifting”
off of the rooftops.  It was very beautiful.  I’m glad I walked.

The sun sets to the toil of the day
So I walk the labyrinth
of this freshly furrowed clay.
Each ridge and valley
…quiet in its readiness
……plowed and dark
……alive and resting.
So straight
and narrow the corridor
that lays open to this breeze
ready for the seed.
I cross the ribbons of this field
that were neatly laid in prayer.
I cross in twilight
this prayer
…that’s written in the earth.

The March wind
so different from the
gentle, later,
spring breeze.

Pushes, and strong arms
it’s way out of winter.
There is a strength that’s needed
for this change.
   To blow away the snow,
      the leaves that have hung
         and refused to go.

This wind… it demands.
It refuses and is stubborn.
It makes a way for what is new.
Baptizing us with rain.